


Fake AH Crew Origins Drabbles

by undergroundmindpalace



Category: Fake AH crew - Fandom, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undergroundmindpalace/pseuds/undergroundmindpalace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short pieces about the main six before they all joined the crew. Little random snapshots more than anything else. fakeahcrew!verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fake AH Crew Origins Drabbles

**Author's Note:**

> So someone asked for this on tumblr (undergroundmindpalace) and I figured I'd post it here. Enjoy, and leave me some feedback, ideas or requests :) [i. Geoff, ii. Jack, iii. Ryan, iv. Ray, v. Michael, vi. Gavin.]

_i._  

Fifteen dollars. He counted it again, piled the money up like little shiny towers in his hand, fifteen- no, fourteen dollars, and eighty cents. _Shit._

A full day’s work for what? He could go to the local convenience store, buy a couple beers and head on home to the one room flat that he couldn’t afford to live in anymore.

_Shit._  He’d have to work even harder tomorrow; knock on more doors, lie more convincingly. The life of a mediocre con-man had never been either easy or good, but as of late things were becoming unbearable. Times were hard. When the people with the big houses and fancy cars suffer, you know that the rest would be hit hard too. The money he had managed to pull together today had been mostly from pity – or just people hoping that he’d finally get off their doorstep if some money changed hands. God bless old people. They were so wonderfully stupid and good intentioned.

He shoved the money back into his pocket, wincing as sore knuckles brushed fraying fabric. His other palm found its way to the cool metal of the door, illuminated by the flashing “OPEN 24/7” sign that hung overhead.

The static from the signs exposed electrics was replaced by the hum of a chorus of refrigerators. The guy at the counter eyed him balefully; two parts bored and one part wary. His hands out of sight, no doubt hovering over a gun. Geoff clearly has that look about him; tattooed, blank eyed and looking rather worse for wear.

He crossed over to the back of the store, where the beer sat behind a fingerprint smeared glass door. Pushing the lite-beer to the side, (with a disapproving shake of his head) he reached in and grabbed a four pack. On the way out he grabbed some doritios, waved them in the store owners faces, then threw the money down on the counter. The door is left swinging on its hinges behind him. The store owner watches him go, then collects the money that has clattered to the floor.

On his way home Geoff stops only once; to press his last fifty cents into the grubby palm of a homeless man, two streets away from his place. The guy thanks him, and Geoff cracks the cap off a beer and hands it to him, then continues on his way. He may be a deadbeat, but at least he’s not an asshole. 

 

_ii._

She’s still asleep. He’s sat on the edge of the bed, quietly tying his shoes and getting ready to leave for work. It’s 6AM, and he’s got to be at the sorting office ready to be out on the streets for 6:45 sharp.

He stands carefully, so as not to wake her. In the mirror he runs a comb through his beard and appraises his appearance; he looks presentable. Underneath his regulation mail company fleece he wears his signature gaudy Hawaiian shirt, the collar being the only visible part. It’s a splash of colour; the plumeria flower pattern a gentle pink, against a sky blue backdrop.

Grabbing his satchel, he heads to the bedroom door, turning the handle with a gentle grip. He takes another look back at the bed again – at her. She’s sleeping still, chest rising and falling with the soft whoosh of air that escapes from her slightly parted lips. Her hair, dark on the white pillows, fans out behind her head. She’s so beautiful, he swears he’s never seen anyone or anything so lovely.

Looking at her is so painful. She deserves so much and he knows that he’ll never be able to give it to her, not like this at least. His wage just isn’t enough; to raise a family would be out of the question. A modest house way out of the city limits? Impossible. He couldn’t even buy her an engagement ring, let alone afford the summer wedding she’d always dreamed of.

There was nothing to be done. He stepped out of the room and carefully shut the door behind himself. He’d stop off on the way home and buy her some gas station flowers. (and she’d blush the colour of roses – a bouquet spread across her cheeks.  _You needn’t have_ , she’d say, fingers tracing the flowers on his shirt while she looked up at him, all toothy grin and wide eyes. And he’d think to himself that maybe they’d be alright after all.)

 

_iii._

He’d thought that his first murder would be more difficult, but really, it was the simplest thing. (Aside from having to get the blood out of your second favourite shirt afterwards.)

It helps when the guy is already unconscious, if we’re being honest. (A blow to the back of the head with a blunt object will do that to a man.) That’s the bit of work involved, unloading a round of bullets into his temple is fingers alone. One simple motion.

The blood sprays outwards, though not as much as the movies would have you believe. It’s brighter than you’d imagine though, almost glowing, vivid red as it pools on the sterile white linoleum floor.

He drags the body down the hallway and shoves it into the janitor’s closet. He pats the guy down and pulls an ID card from the wallet he finds in his pocket. This, along with a plain white, blood soaked handkerchief would prove to be evidence enough for his boss to be satisfied. God knows what this poor bastard had done, but clearly he’d managed to upset a very powerful man. Eh, his mistake.

He grabs a mop from behind the cadaver and gets to work cleaning. No justice in making the cleaners deal with it in the morning. Like they haven’t got enough on their plate. It doesn’t take him too long to get the place looking presentable again. He throws the soiled mop back in the closet, then leans down and grab the guy’s keys from his waistband. It’d be rude not to lock up the offices for the night after all.

He pushes his hair back off of his face, vowing to start wearing it up in a ponytail when on the job. In doing so, blood smears from his palm onto his face. He doesn’t notice, still riding high from a job well done.

It’s not until he gets home that he sees it. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he raises a hand to his face; wipes his forehead with steady movements. His face is a finger painting; no, a masterpiece. Violent red on pure white, and dark, dark eyes staring back at him – it’s a striking look, and perhaps the bold statement that he’s been looking for.

The next day he buys face paint: red, white and black.

 

_iv._

It’s late, and the city is aglow. There are lights bleeding into the horizon, as far as the eye can see. And what a view it is, sitting atop the roof of the office block at the end of the street. He should have been in bed hours ago, but there’s something about the city at night that calls out to him. Something about dark streets and the whole city spread out beneath him. The streets are like veins, and the concrete pulses like a heartbeat underneath his feet.

He’s living on his own now, in a one room apartment at the very edge of the city limits. There’s no one there to worry over him, to tell him to dress more warmly than he is right now, (a bright purple hoody, a size too big.)

It takes him about 35 minutes to walk to the city centre. When he sprints along the rooftops it takes him about 15. He can get to just about anywhere within the city limits in under an hour if he should want to, (which sometimes he does.) Between this, and an extreme amount of video gaming, his eyes are incredible. He can see exactly where to place his feet, how far a jump is, and the layout of the streets, from several blocks away. It’s almost a superhuman skill. He’s probably the best free runner in town.

For him, there is a freedom in that which would trap others; for most people, the city is a cage. Or an animal – a wild beast that unhinges it’s jaw and swallows you whole. Right now, at 3AM, leaping from roof to roof, it’s an ocean of light, a halo that illuminates an otherwise darkened sky. It’s beautiful.

 

_v._

He’s 12 years old and loves to watch the way things fall apart. At first it’s legos, building them into towers and then flattening them again, with the swipe of a hand. Then it’s jumping on sandcastles, at the beach, watching as the sand disperses in every direction. The first time he sees a wrecking ball tear through the side of the building he gets so excited that his mother has to drag him away from the demolition site, while he laughs hysterically.

When he’s 14 he discovers the modern marvel that is youtube. To his delight, and his mother’s chagrin, he can now watch a multitude of videos of things breaking. There’s even slow motion footage of explosions. He routinely spends hours at a time trawling through video after video, awestruck at the wonder that is deconstruction.

It’s a strange habit, but not one that his mother worries about. Mrs. Jones is not the sort of woman to let much faze her. That is until she finds _how to make bomb_ in her internet history. It’s at that point that she hides the vinegar, and decides to get rid of the baking soda all together.

She knows that her son means well. She knows that it’s just an interest, a hobby, and that really, more than anything, it’s a form of expression. For little Michael himself is an explosive person. She tries to encourage his curiosity. He’s not a natural learner when it comes to things he doesn’t care about, but she takes him to science museums, and helps him to make a scale module of a volcano for his science fair, (with smoke and sound effects to boot.) She even makes a point to go to fireworks displays for every single national holiday that she has off work.

He drops out of school as soon as he can, starts hanging out with this British kid, who’s incredibly charming but utterly hopeless. They make quite the duo. He starts working at a library, of all places. Stacking books and being quieter than anyone who knows him would believe possible.

That being said, he never did give up his love for volatile chemistry.

 

_vi._

Gavin doesn’t like America all that much. The kids are meaner, school is tougher and people call rubbish _garbage._ It all feels wrong. His dad tells him to put up with it, his mother apologises tearfully but still, despite all his complaining, Gavin is still stuck there.

School sucks and he’s certain that at least 97% of his teachers think that he’s stupid. His peers are of no help to him, they make fun of his accent and throw his shoes onto telephone wires, (the way they always do in the movies, which Gavin cannot believe actually happens.)

He’s walking home from school one day, shoeless again, when he sees this kid sitting alone on the curb. He recognises him when he gets a little closer. He can’t but a name to the face but he’s sure he’s seen him around school before. Messy, dark ginger curls and big brown eyes; He realises that the kid is in the grade above him. He’s loud, rambunctious, laughter always audible, even in a crowd.

He doesn’t look like the same person, sat quietly, flicking a lighter on then off again. He’s watching the flames spark up, then flicker out. He takes a break to look over at Gavin, who only stares at him, blank facedly. He takes in his dishevelled appearance and his shoeless feet, then, with the smallest of smiles, calls out to him, “hey, what’chu looking at stupid?”

Immediately, Gavin tenses up, gets ready to get the hell out of there. But then he realises something. There’s nothing aggressive about this boy. His tone is light, and good-natured, all humour and no bite.

Gavin decides to sit down next to him, watching as he goes back to staring at the flames again. _So the kid likes fire huh?_   Gavin hardly thinks, (ever) and this moment in time is no exception. Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulls the sock off of his left foot and dangles it above the fire. It turns brown first, then the cotton ignites and the fire travels upwards. He flings the desecrated article into the middle of the street, then goes to tug his other sock off too.

The other kid is staring at him now, wondering what he’s gotten himself into. He can’t tell whether he’s witnessing a breakdown, or if the kid sat next to him is a genius, or perhaps both. It’s entertaining though. They both watch the second sock go up in flames and then go flying into the centre of the street. Obviously both of Michael’s socks follow too.

Strangers become best friends on the barefoot walk back to their homes.


End file.
